The island is dreamed by lizards.They dart about or they bask,imagining countrieswhere people lying on beacheshave no more substance than versesdrawn on the sand, or this pagetime washes over already.

II

Yesterday, on the mainland,you were still a machine.Robot arms gestured,robot thoughts passedby on their usual circuits.But today you’ve grown leavesand your talk is pure birdsong.

III

At the back of the dunesphosphorus torches of yucca,the surprise of a garden.The sea is a conjuror’s hat;where it drops, cargo ships happen.The moon is unshredded cloud. Underfoot,the sand-scatter lights of white snails.